


The Blood of a Hellhound

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s08e14 Trial and Error, Hellhounds, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Perpetual guilt Dean, Perpetual guilt Sam, Trauma, dub con, surprisingly romantic and non-violent brother touching, the bat cave!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam realizes he's <i>finally</i> saved Dean from the hellhounds, five years too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood of a Hellhound

**Author's Note:**

> This episode was cute. I mean, the friction' memory foam. Nesting Wincest is besting best. I don't own them.

It’s not until they’re back home and Sam has thrown his shirt out--cotton stiff and black with the blood of hell--that it hits him. His stomach drops, palms suddenly becoming hot and sweaty while the rest of him chills. He replays the scene in his head a few times to make sure he’s remembering it right, but nothing changes. 

_Saved Dean. Saved him from the hellhounds_. He thinks. 

And then it all makes sense, why he’s the one who has to complete the trials of heaven. 

_I finally saved Dean from hell hounds_ he thinks, again, in a complete sentence. It’s a true sentence. Not something the devil told him when he’s half-asleep so that he would wake and know it was his most regrettable lie. Not something he jotted down on a sheet of paper while he was drunk and Dean was in hell, some desperate plea with himself for forgiveness. It’s just _true._

He drags one hand through his hair, places the other one over his heart. Dean’s already crashed, in his new bed in his new room, splayed out with his limbs in every direction like some scribble on a page. He’s exhausted, Sam knows. But he has to tell him this. He has to make sure he’s real, he has to feel his skin, hot and alive and damp under a sheen of nightmare sweat. 

Sam staggers into Dean’s room on aching legs, and smooths one huge palm up the length of Dean’s back, thumb over the ladder of his spine. Dean’s not asleep; he rolls over, face screwed up in that look that says, _mad at you. don’t want to fuck_. Even though Dean is not mad at him, just mad at himself, and there’s never been a time when Dean didn’t want to fuck badly enough he stopped Sam from getting him there, bringing him the point where it didn’t matter what he’d originally wanted. 

Sam doesn’t waste time. “Dean,” he murmurs, crawling into bed alongside his brother, immense weight making the mattress whine, the memory-foam sink and reshape to accommodate him. He puts his hands on Dean, prevents him from getting any ideas, fighting, moving. Dean is pliant, too tired and broken and _wrong_ about everything to think of a reason why he should stop this. “Finally saved you,” Sam tells him, bringing their brows together, thumbing along Dean’s rough jawline. 

Everything stops for a second. Dean is blinking past his half-asleep muddiness and self-recrimination, swaying beneath Sam, eyes dark and sagey like something burnt. Then it hits him, the same revelation, and he understands. Thoughts flash across his gaze with obvious clarity, his own flesh ripped apart by gaping black jaws, his own brother unable to save him. 

_Until now,_ they both think. A line creases through Dean’s brow, and his eyes drift to an even darker shade. 

“Shoulda been be saving you,” Dean replies, like he’s on autopilot, like he hasn’t heard a damn thing Sam’s said all night. His fists tighten on Sam’s shoulders, and something twitches in his jaw, but he lets Sam tilt his head back and kiss his throat, eyes shut tight. “Sammy,” he mumbles, shuddering beneath Sam’s fingers, skin strained in the weakest protest. 

“No,” Sam tells him, pushing him back into his bed, smoothing his hair. Dean looks lost, broken apart. His eyes too green, too light to belong to someone whose suffering is so long suffering. Sam wants to lick into that green. He grinds their brows together, stares at Dean until his eyes blend into a single thing. “Can’t. Couldn’t have. Had to save myself, had to save you...from the hell hounds. Dean. Dean, _I finally_ saved you from the hell hounds.” Sam doesn’t mean for his voice to break, but it does. Dean flinches underneath him, like the breaking hurts. 

“Not your fault,” Dean whispers. Sam’s not sure what he’s talking about, if it’s a comment directed towards himself, or to his brother. He doesn’t care. He’s too in awe. He kisses Dean heavy, slow, pins his arms all tight and sinewy above his head, rubs his index finger into his favorite burn scar on Dean’s wrist. He licks as deeply as he can into his brother’s mouth, tries to weld them together with spit and pain. 

Dean’s hands skirt over his shoulder, then dig into him until his flesh gives. He lets Sam kiss him, lets Sam smooth his hair over and over again with feverish palms. Sam can’t believe this. That this man, his creature, this _mess_ is his, his brother to ruin. Or, drag to the light at the end of his tunnel. Burn down, or build up. He tastes salt in their kiss, and wonders if Dean’s leaking tears, or if he is. 

Their skin brushes together and it feels like fire. Dean fists into Sam’s hair, pulls it, opens his mouth under Sam’s open mouth and pants, heavy, hard, desperate. His eyes are screwed shut too tightly for Sam to fall into the green. Sam licks his cheekbone, kisses the hollow under it, the scattered constellation of freckles. Dean’s breath hitches again, his hips rising off his bed and locking into Sam’s, and he’s saying something, mindlessly, blindly. “Can’t lose you to this, Sammy. Can’t let you.” 

“You have to let me,” Sam tells them, letting his hips roll into Dean’s, burying his face in his neck and inhaling the sweet, salty smell of sweat and hay and leather from the tack room they slept in all week. “This is the way it’s supposed to be.” 

“Can’t live if you die,” Dean mumbles, pulling fistfuls of hair. “I’ll bring you back again. I’ll follow you.” Desperate words, the same mistakes he swore he wouldn’t make again. 

“Won’t have to,” Sam pleads, rubbing Dean’s cheek with broad, rough strokes of his palms. “Not gonna leave you here. Anyway, Dean, _Dean_ ,” he reminds him, sucking at the deepest hollow in his throat, digging this thumbs into tissue and tendons. “Can’t live without you, either. You gotta remember that. That happy ending you want for me..there is no happy ending unless you’re here, too.” 

“But,” Dean says, with nothing after it. Sam kisses him into silence, grinds his hard dick between Dean’s shaking thighs. Dean is hard, too, in spite of himself, in spite of all this shit about his new mattress Sam’s supposedly not allowed to come on. Sam palms his quadriceps, feels them flex and shudder and twitch, slides his hand up into the darkest, hottest crease of Dean’s body. Dean’s eyes open, flicker, and Sam’s breath hitches his time. 

_Finally saved you_ , Sam thinks, reaching between them to touch Dean. He pulls away long enough to say, “Not your fault.”


End file.
